Evolutionary Process of Man
by Kirrae
Summary: David Hume -"A man acquainted with history may, in some respect, be said to have lived from the beginning of the world, and to have been making continual additions to his stock of knowledge in every century."
1. Creationism

A/N: This is my three attempts to reconcile the DmC trailer with any semblance of rationality. The first is purely hysterical, the second takes it as a prequel, the third is probably the more likely (but still not what Capcom is likely going to try to feed us in this weird 'prequel/reboot')

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><p>Creationism<p>

She found him in some foreign country, she didn't even know where it was on a map, just knew how to get there, and that it was vaguely in Eastern Europe. Some small countryside town that was in Romania or the Ukraine. Boundaries got weird out there. He was easy enough to subdue and string up- most of his skills were gone, seemed like his memory had been wiped. If he even was Dante.

He'd been fighting demons with the agility of a part-devil, had twin pistols, and enough flair to convince her that whatever happened, it was probably Dante. He was just useless and got himself turned into this emo mess. Lady pulled down her shades and tapped the wireless earpiece, waiting for a moment as the other line started to ring.

"What is it?"

"I found him."

* * *

><p>There were a lot of things Trish had expected to see, but a hoodie (<em>was that purple?<em>) and black hair were not on her list. Dante was far too vain to wear anything half as ratted as what this scrawny punk called clothing. He was also too in love with his hair to ever dye it. Something was wrong.

Lady was currently grilling him on information. Questions like: "Who were your parents?" and "What is the name of your shop?" were answered with an "I don't know" often followed by confusion and a question along the lines of "I have a shop?" Mostly, they were met with strings of curses and violent, if not pathetic, attempts to escape.

This was getting them nowhere, but Trish had a theory.

"What is the first thing you remember?"

"Being tied up in a cell by some assholes who claimed to be rehabilitating me, I already told you that."

"Did they tell you anything while you were there? Call you by any name?"

"Just a number."

"Lady, I think our dear friend has been victimized by the schemes of corporate marketing."

"What the fuck?"

"Well, you are a commodity, something that can be sold, but the people who made you realized, somewhat errantly, that the market was saturated with the 'old' you, thus they had to re-imagine your image and history. They remade you, in order to sell even more copies of you, Dante. Unfortunately, to do that, they had to change the original- go back and change everything and make sure you never knew that you were changed. Because you'd probably assassinate them all. It's a legitimate concern."

"And what the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

"I don't like this emo Dante thing. It doesn't look good for Lady and I."

Lady was catching on to this. Honestly, she had thought maybe he'd been brainwashed into thinking he was human- again- but this was probably more likely. They didn't call him a man-whore for nothing, after all.

"So we're going to fix that."

* * *

><p>Two hours later found 'Dante' dressed from head to toe in pink, frills, and far too much lace. They even painted his nails pink. He hadn't actually liked the black, but it was better than pink. He looked like a pretty, pretty princess. Complete with blonde hair and high heels.<p>

"Do you think we can fuck with those scanners?"

"You mean, market this Dante?"

"Yeah. It'd make killer profits. They'd love it."

He was serious when he said he didn't remember anything. He didn't. Just woke up in that facility where they kept asking him 'what is your name?' over and over, like he could answer. The bastards.

They were crazy, but something about these women was familiar. If only he could remember...

"You think maybe they just took Doppelganger and gave him a new wardrobe?"

"He's still too emo."

"Maybe they got their hands on Nero instead."

Nero, now that name also sounded familiar. But why did his brain keep insisting that Nero meant 'kid' and he was to never utter the name Nero, as if his life depended on his inability to call the kid by his proper name...

"We just saw him two months ago."

"That's still two months-"

"I don't think any amount of time would ever have Nero thinking he was Dante."

_Heh, if that wasn't the truth_- WHERE THE FUCK DID THAT COME FROM? There was something wrong with him.

"True."

They sat in silence for a minute. Thousands of images flashed through his mind faster than he could grasp them. Names flew at him from the abyss that was his unconscious mind and suddenly he got angry. Really fucking pissed. He was going to strangle those goddamn bitches for ever thinking that this was an acceptable way to deal with his amnesia. Fake-mother and reminder-of-all-things-Vergil were going to die. As soon as he could move.

Damnit, his fucking muscles had atrophied.

"When you money grubbing leeches stop talking about me like I'm not even here, could you get me the fuck down?"

"Aw, Dante, you should be able to get down on your own."

"Not in heels and a dress, Lady."

Trish was a nasty bitch. Once they got him down she insisted on asking, "Are you feeling better?"

As if that deserved an answer.

"Fuck no. I'm wearing _pink_. Of all colors, you just had to pick pink." He spoke the word like it was poison.

"You wear red, that's one of the colors they use to make pink... Red and white, which means, you must really like pink. You know, red leather, white hair... You must have a pink soul, Dante."

"I'd kill you, but my hit list is rather high at the moment." He sighed, stood still for a minute, then gave up and spoke, "You still got those shitty drug-addict clothes? Because anything is better than this."

"You gonna keep the hair?"

"Sure, why not, I'll even wear black with lightening bolts, and then we'll be like a real family, right _Mom_?"

Trish was not amused. Dante thought he was hilarious. Lady just pulled out a gun, she'd need it in:

3...

"Why did we bother finding you?"

2...

"Because you missed me."

He got shot in the jaw twice, once in each shoulder, had three bullets pierce his spleen, and one dangerously close to his knee-cap.

Damn it was good to be back.


	2. 1984

1984

It was far away from his usual haunts, but after that mess with Gilver - _Vergil_, a primal part of his mind insisted, _his name is Vergil and yours is Dante_.

Regardless, Tony Redgrave had a job to do, and whether his name was Dante didn't matter. Not now. He had a contact to hunt down, he just hoped this would actually prove worthwhile. The town looked like a fucking mess. Pretty, sure, but isolated and far too 1984 for his tastes. (Years later when he walked through the gates of Fortuna, he'd think the same.)

_Heh, eat your heart out Big Brother, 'cause I ain't leavin.'_

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><p>His contact was a frightened barkeep who complained about black and white monsters. Didn't sound like demons, non that he'd ever seen, but there was a first time for everything, and as long as they weren't human, he didn't give a damn. If they were human, well, he'd have to do a bit of investigating before he decided whether or not he should take 'em down. They seemed like robots more than demons, but they were apparently autonomous.<p>

"They work in packs, but I've seen them fight with themselves, sometimes they almost try to speak when hunting us. People don't go outside much anymore. I barely get a group of four in here on friday nights. Do you know what that's like? For a bar? 'S crazy, I tell ya."

"Yeah, I got ya. Normal response though, all things considered." Enough of the talking, he needed details. "Where do you usually see them?"

"All over, but mostly downtown. Do you need a map?"

"I'll figure it out."

He moved to the door, no need to stick around.

"Oh, you can't go out there like that. They'll know I called you. You should change into some of my spare clothes. They should fit you." The keep turned to go rummaging through a closet, when he felt his wrist get caught in an iron grip.

"Wait up, what the fuck do I need to get changed for?"

"They'll easily tell you're from out of town. You should also watch out for that sword."

"And why does it matter if they know where I'm from? They're demons."

"No, not the creatures. _Them_."

"Them?"

"The catchers. Don't ask questions, just put this on." The keep had managed to pull out a pair of dark jeans, a white t-shirt, and a hoodie. He quickly ushered Tony into the bathroom and told him "Your hair is also a dead give-away. No one here has hair like that."

When he came back out of the stall, Tony shrugged, "I got something for that, don't worry. Can I leave these with you?" He gestured to his red and black leather hunting gear. The keep took them and put them back in the closet, locking it.

That finished, Dante turned to leave, "I'll be back soon."

As he stepped through the doorway, his hair bled with color until it was black as pitch and his eyes shone a blood red, the amulet on his neck fading into a beaded necklace. Sure, it was an emotastic glamour, but it was better than getting caught by the local secret police. Mini-Love wasn't really his speed. He'd be just another human until he had to fight, and then he'd start to loose it. The glamour would fade, probably disappear like a devil-trigger when he got too invested, but that's what happens when you aren't totally human. At least he wouldn't have too much of an audience.

For now, he was okay with it, but if he had to wear this damn face for more than a few hours, he was going to set this town on fire. Doubleplus-ungood.

* * *

><p>AN: Part 2 of 3. Let me know what you think about this.

1984 - A book by Orson Wells "is a 1948 dystopian fiction written by George Orwell about a society ruled by an oligarchical dictatorship." (summary from Wikipedia)

Mini-Love - the Ministry of Love, a prison in the style of the Lubyanka - complete with KGB style guards and torture.


	3. Erroneous

A/N: Part 3 of 3, a case of mistaken identity and the problem of 'recovered' memories.

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><p>Erroneous<p>

He woke up, hung from the ceiling by his arms, and black rage flooded through him. Something was going to die.

_"What is your name?"_

"I don't have one, you fucking asshole. You know that. We've been through this twelve times in the past three days! I have fucking amnesia from the last time you waterboarded me. You think that's legal? You think you have a right to that? 'Cause you don't. I don't know who you think I am, but I have rights you asshole. Fundamental human rights that you and your shitty government agency - your adolescent rehabilitation center - doesn't have the authority to infringe."

_"Quite knowledgeable for a man with amnesia, aren't you?"_

"Oh, is that how it is now, you're gonna mock me. See if I'll break. Try it you fucking bastard, I dare you."

_"Why do I need to mock you? You do so well on your own when we leave you alone."_

Silence.

_"Did you think we didn't know? We have cameras Dan- demon. We're always watching."_

"Aw, does someone have a crush? That's cute. Real cute."

_"What is your name?"_

"Why are you asking when it seems like you know? What did you say before Dane? Was that my name?"

Silence. They've been caught.

"But no, it was more like Daa- long 'a' sound, Dante maybe? Like the poet? Huh, cute."

He probably wasn't Dante. He didn't know who he was, but the name chafed. It didn't feel like him, but if they wanted him to be Dante, he'd be Dante.

Yeah, he could do that. Just let them fill in the blanks. It was easy enough to make Mr. Big-Shot-Voice-Box slip up, the man could not hold his banter. And that was how he'd do it. He'd get out of here. He slid up from the slouched, hanging position he'd been in for hours. His shoulders were killing him, and so were his feet, but he wouldn't be here much longer. He rolled his shoulders as well as he could in the bonds, rolled his neck, started working the kinks out of his muscles, and a slow smile took over his face.

Just a little while longer, and he was out.


End file.
